


electrical storm.

by Icanwritesee



Series: anisotropy. [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Ballet!lock and Rugby!John, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, M/M, No Smut, Remake, aulock, like I said I eat hearts for funsies, not a wip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 15:03:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8718448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icanwritesee/pseuds/Icanwritesee
Summary: "oh, I'm sorry!", spoke a nice, gentle voice. of course. John Watson. "you okay there, mate?"Sherlock sighed, irritated. Watson's kindness grated on his nerves."what do you want, Watson?", he asked aggressively, trying to put in his voice as much hostility as he could, but it didn't seem to work. John - damn him! - in opposition to every other person, wasn't particularly fazed by Sherlock's attitude.





	1. the first blast of supernova.

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [let's open our eyes to the brand new day.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3099311) by [Icanwritesee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icanwritesee/pseuds/Icanwritesee). 



> my biggest hugs and eternal gratitude goes out to my dear beta and also a lovely friend, modjohnlock. she made the original text much better than it was at first, and I can't thank her enough for that. 
> 
> it's worth to mention that this work is already done, it's not a WIP, and it was originally posted by myself some time ago here on AO3, and it was written in Polish, my native language. I was thinking that I could translate it because most of my friends on here or tumblr speak English, and I wanted to give them something for Christmas. I'll update it as I go translating, but it can take me quite some time - it's more than 10k long, and it's only the first part ._.  
> the whole thing is in general about different experiences of two people, so pov will naturally shift between them. I'll always let you know when that happens. plus, I have a tendency to ignore all the circumstances altogether and focus on main characters because I always think it doesn't really matter where or when something happened. if it does, I'll let you know. I may add more tags with time, too, but let it be noted that I generally avoid writing smut as a rule, though I tend to use graphic language, both through expressions and descriptions. nothing yuckie, though. we're all here for fun. and because we keep burning in Johnlock Hell.  
> please note that I'm not an English-speaking person - I had to be taught to speak English, and I've been doing just that for most of my life, but there still are some things that are a bit problematic for me. with that said, any mistakes or typos are mine alone. I know story's not perfect - it was never meant to be anyway, and no, my capitalization is fine, that's the way I write stuff. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

he world had its many flaws. flaws, of which Sherlock Holmes was an eager adversary. he despised Christmas. in his personal ranking of aversion, Christmas was above idiocy in general, so you can already imagine how deeply he disagreed with the celebration of birth of The Child. just below Christmas and idiocy in Sherlock's ranking, you could find cheesecake. he particularly hated raisins in any cheesecake as they made him think of Mycroft, because for some mystical reason, Mycroft loved raisins. below that, he hated trying to get somewhere in London during the peak hours, long breaks between cases, and the extending absence of the one and only John Watson. oh, how he hated that last one.  
Sherlock always associated the holiday season with the warmth surrounding the table in the dining room in the Holmes mansion. all those love vibes only served to separate Sherlock more and more from experiencing the 'normal' feelings. it's not that his parents were particularly cold, no. Sherlock had always felt loved - he was surrounded by people closest to him, the ones that accepted him unconditionally. the main problem was  Sherlock's eternal-long issue with self-acceptance. emotions proved to be a substantial challenge because he drowned in his feelings. it was like witnessing a tsunami sweeping everything off the land. that's why Sherlock was one of the most careful people in the whole of London - life taught him to hide his heart just in case anyone would try to settle in it for a long term.  
  
*

Sherlock lit a cigarette immediately after leaving the ballet studio. he inhaled smoke and let it out after a heartbeat. the man closed his eyes, intently listening to his scattered, restless thoughts tearing his mind to pieces. the evening fog was already hanging in the air, and the sound of his steps suppressed  worn plimsolls. pleasant visions of his last night in a club that came to the forefront of his thoughts were mercilessly disturbed by someone walking into him. someone of decidedly smaller, but more compact build than his. he staggered backwards.

"oh, I'm sorry!", spoke a nice, gentle voice. of course. John Watson. "you okay there, mate?"  
Sherlock sighed, irritated. Watson's kindness grated on his nerves. "what do you want, Watson?", he asked aggressively, trying to lace his voice with as much hostility as he could, but it didn't seem to work. John - damn him! - in opposition to every other person, wasn't particularly fazed by Sherlock's attitude.

_two days' old stubble and yesterday's clothes - he spent another night on Stamford's sofa._

the stream of light from the nearest streetlight made John's normally sandy blond hair look like a gold halo surrounding his head, and his lashes looked as if they were at least two times longer than during the day. for some reason Sherlock felt strange prickling in the depths of his chest. John's crooked smile and sparkling eyes did weird things to him.  
"only you can run into a bloke through your own fault and yell at him because of that!"  
the still air, laden with heavy fog, was disturbed by the blond man's quiet laugh; Sherlock had to admit that that was probably the most beautiful sound in the world. he was overwhelmed by a feeling that was unknown until now: an acute feeling of shame. he would be damned if he let it show, though. the dancer cleared his throat, flicking the ash with a short movement of an elegant hand.

"I'm waiting on..."  
  
"...Stamford, you're going to go to the nearest pub to pour down your throats a heavy number of alcoholic beverages to compensate for your fail in an organic chemistry test", interjected Sherlock. "I'm sure you've scored much lower than your average result, why would you want to drown your failure in alcohol otherwise? you're intelligent enough to pass the exam, but to keep your rugby scholarship, you have to maintain your grades on the same level as always. that's why you're retaking your exam on the first day after the holiday break. and that's all right, you weren't going to come back to your family home for Christmas where you and your sister will be forced to pretend to be part of a loving family with your mother and her new husband. no wonder you'd rather study, everyone would choose that over forced togetherness."  
John simply stared at the tall ballet dancer for a couple of seconds with his lips slightly open. his face was a perfect example of surprise. "how...?", he choked out finally.  
Sherlock made a mental note for further studies that John's eyes still sparkled. the blueness of the player's eyes looked even more startling than before.  
"come on", the brunette scoffed, but was secretly pleased. "anyone with more than two capable brain cells would be able to figure it out."  
it's been so long since anyone was curious about Sherlock, since that summer with Victor, that one moment he decidedly didn't want to think about at all; the nightmares were still too present in his everyday life, months after.  
"that would mean that I have only two", John's lips performed that smile that made the girls' knees weak. _damn Watson._  
"don't be like that, I already told you you were relatively intelligent, you're just ignoring the clues." _please ask what kind of clues you're missing,_ he thought, _I'm begging you. see what you already did to me?_  
  
"so what am I missing?"

_oh, John. I'll worship you until I'm old and grey while there's still air in my lungs._  
  
"you've grown two days old stubble and you're wearing clothes that were obviously worn for two days in a row, so that would mean you weren't in your own dorm. that would leave only one possibility. Mike Stamford has extended his hospitality to you and let you have his couch - he's the one to whom you turn in times of need despite having an impressive number of friends."  
"what about the exam? how could you possibly know about it? or my relationship with my stepfather?"  
Sherlock sighed dramatically. just like anyone who tends to overly dramatize, it was one of the things he often did just to piss every other person off.  
  
"you're holding in your hand something that's undoubtedly your application for repeating the exam, I can see the date in the left upper corner, 29th Dec., first Monday after Christmas, and before the New Year, so that would mean you weren't going to visit your mother. you wouldn't be able to come back in time even if you took the first train because your exam is going to begin at eight o'clock. while we're talking about your mother, let me remind you that every time you talk about your family home, you use the phrase 'at my mother's', that wouldn't mean anything in itself, not if it wasn't in context. this time one has to remind oneself about your lack of extended family, it's only your sister, mother and yourself, and despite that, you went to the wedding at the beginning of the term, so your mother had to remarry. let's add the fact that I haven't heard you mentioning your stepfather, so you aren't his biggest fan. process of elimination."

Sherlock didn't expect anything from John, really. he was mentally prepared for harsh words he'd rather save himself from, not wanting to spoil John's picture in his head. that's why after his last sentence, he bypassed Watson and was going to resume his disturbed way back home when he heard two of the most surprising words John really chose to say:

"...amazing. fantastic."

his first reaction was to be stunned. then, his stomach did sammersault with happiness and unexplainable relief. he stopped dead in his tracks, just like ten minutes prior. "what did you say?"  
"you're always having this strange, not-really-there look in your eyes, you know. I thought that you were disappearing in your thoughts and didn't see the world around you, but you were really scanning the people, weren't you?"

"...what?"

_very intelligent, Willie._

"you're a genius, Sherlock." and there it was again, that disarming smile.

_if you're going to keep talking like that, there's a huge chance for me to get to like my name._

John took a good look at Sherlock's face. "...and I think that you don't hear good opinions of yourself often enough."  
  
_when my parents praise me, I pretend not to hear them talking._

things would be fine if John didn't come up with catching his elbow. really. if the conversation didn't mess his thoughts enough, _the hand on his elbow_ made them explode like a swarm of bees in threatened hive. a surprisingly pleasant feeling of warmth spreaded over his entire body like a wave.

"Stamford lives in the opposite direction", Sherlock observed when they left the campus.  
"I don't know if you've noticed, but it's pretty hard to hide that we're not going there."  
"was that irony?"  
"yup, point for you", John smiled. "I'm in a good mood tonight, so you don't have to ask me to walk you home."  
"why would I ask you such thing when I'm perfectly capable of walking on my own?"  
"becauseeeee... I'm a promising young man?"

Sherlock snorted with laughter. he already started to like John's dry sense of humour. "I just... I want to walk you home, Sherlock", he said, shyly lowering his eyes.  
"let's go then, I live in quite a distance from here."  
few seconds later he felt some invisible vice clenching around his rib cage when John looked in his eyes once more and beamed.


	2. magnetism.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they both begin to fall, but don't fully understand what's happening yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi there, stranger :3 you... come here often? huh? oh, you're here for the new chapter? please, be my guest :3 
> 
> I kinda have mixed feelings about this new one, certainly not the finest of my writing moments, but let me quote:
> 
> John suddenly felt all his blood leaving his upper brain to go to the one below his waist, and he had to take matters into his own _hand_.
> 
> that's my legacy, not-quite-smut-but-puns.  
> thankyou, thankyouverymuch *bows*  
> *  
> on the more serious note, my biggest thanks to my awesome beta that had to carve in this text to make it readable. seriously, I couldn't do it without your help. you're the best, Darcie bee.
> 
> again, I emphasized all the povs changes, as well as internal monologues. formatting is a bitch. also, trust me: Sherlock's not sick. he just thinks he is. 
> 
> see you next time :3

**SHERLOCK**

  
_damn flu,_ thought Sherlock when another atypical wave of heat attacked him. _I **can't** get sick just before the opening night!_

he was so disappointed that he couldn't hear any of John's words - the rugby player was narrating some obviously funny story, if the laughter and crinkles around his navy eyes were anything to go by. oh, the story ended for John quite painfully (dislocated thumb?), but paradoxically, it also had an element of humor in the form of his sister's comment. to be honest, Sherlock didn't think it was that funny. to his surprise, he found the story quite disturbing, and the very thought of John's suffering made him feel like some cosmic order was seriously upset. and he wasn't naturally prone to bother himself with nonsense like that.  
but John, John was one of the most intriguing anomalies. that's what Sherlock called him in his head. from time to time. he was a wonderful anomaly, that John Watson. Sherlock observed him every day from his usual place in the library in practically every circumstance possible - John on his own, John doing his best to study, John keeping a girl company who he wasn't interested in at the moment. John exhausted by the hard work of keeping his scholarship, John in an excellent mood and smiling brightly enough to cloud Sun (his personal favourite John). Sherlock has seen it all. in opposition to how these things usually went, he wasn't bored at all. if that was even possible, John Watson was becoming more and more fascinating object with every passing minute. the first few days of observation proved true the most interesting deduction of them all: Sherlock wanted to sit in the place of every person having the right to interact with the blond man with eyes of the most beautiful shade of blue which Sherlock wasn't able to describe with any known word.  
  
*  
  
**JOHN**

Sherlock Holmes. the name alone said everything you'd need to know about the man himself. if John was an artist that had to picture a person of charm hard to define, he would have painted Sherlock's portrait. Sherlock's and his angular body. his slim, but powerful frame, his porcelain skin. his eyes containing all of the galaxies inside of them. his full lips. his raven black hair rolled in thick curls. his piercing glare. John sighed quietly, and thought to himself that Sherlock's image was the only thing he would be able to share with the rest of the world. but - thankfully - John wasn't an artist; he would have to be _really_ gifted to capture the full extend of Sherlock's beauty.  
  
*

"Sherlock..."  
"John..."  
"thank you."  
"whatever for?"  
"for letting me walk you back home."  
"oh. okay. that was... good of you. but... don't count on repeating it anytime soon."  
"w-what? why?"  
"good night, John."  
  
*

**JOHN**

  
_'good night, John!' he must be joking!_

John was confused. unsure. distracted. disappointed. and really fucking pissed off. he felt his blood boiling in his veins on his way back to his little dorm. and all that because of one Sherlock Holmes who should be named Troublemaker instead of Holmes. John counted to ten in his mind, pinching the bridge of his nose with a thumb and index finger. he really didn't want to lose control over himself - his bursts were sort of urban legends. this time it was a glass that took the beating. there must've passed some time before he was calm enough to take shower. when he was already lying on his bed, and pillow was absorbing the drops of water left in his hair after showering, he checked his inbox and cursed. 21 messages and 6 missed calls. all the texts could be summed up by in one long sentence: _you cock you forgot about our pint how could you I'mma beat yo arse you wanker_. they were all obviously sent by Greg, Mike wouldn't condescend himself to harrassment.  
groggily deciding to settle things up in the morning, John simply ignored the notifications about missed calls and tossed the phone on his wobbly bedside table and fell asleep in no time at all.

*  
  
**SHERLOCK**

Sherlock Holmes wasn't sleeping. nothing new under the Sun. he was smoking while staring at the ceiling of his bedroom instead, lost in his thoughts. nothing strange here either. his thoughts, spinning out of control, had one common denominator: John Watson. Sherlock couldn't tell what all of that meant yet, but he knew he didn't like it. John Watson was dangerous. and frightened him. but also fascinated him. and he was the only person who didn't think Sherlock was a psychopath that loved to eat cats in his spare time.  
  
_the fact he didn't say it doesn't really mean that he didn't think it and you know it,_ his mind obligingly supplied, _not true. John admires me. he thinks I'm amazing._

Sherlock couldn't quite believe it was real when John looked at him with such awe written so clearly in his face. every word that left Sherlock's lips, automatically became the ultimate truth, even if he claimed that Eqarth was completely flat. not that he cared about this one at all, though. it was rubbish like this that Sherlock deleted months ago from his mind palace.  
his treacherous mind prompted a vision of John wearing a blue sweatshirt protruding from under his jacket - how it really brought John's eyes out. Sherlock's face started to redden, so he had to hide it in his pillow.  
  
_it has to be the flu. damn it, I won't let Victor take my part!_

Victor Trevor was ancient history; their relationship was like a greek tragedy too. just like any famous tragedy, it lasted for much too long and ended up with death of one of the participants. that's how it felt, anyway. this time it was Sherlock's dignity, his self-esteem, and - worst of them all - his trust. in the end, it was messy, and Victor took it upon himself to make it that bit more ugly for Sherlock. to make things even worse, some time after their breakup, when Sherlock slowly started to heal, he saw Trevor wandering around his campus. but that wasn't the worst, no. the worst part was Victor appearing at _his_ practice, going through basic stretching exercises. the nerve of the man! Sherlock fumed, ready to shed blood, which was something new because he wasn't naturally a hothead. Sherlock's biggest fault was being a hostage to his emotions. but that afternoon - and meeting his ex after six months of no contact - he wanted to aim at his heart, just like Trevor did to him. essentially, the dancer realized that would be cruelty, but really, he didn't give much of a damn.  
when he was sure he was able to take control over his original rage (thank God for cigarettes, really), he decided to act, but he had to come up with some kind of a plan first. that's why he asked the instructor, Mrs. Hudson, for a talk. he normally preferred texting because it limited his exposure to stupidity people typically exuded to a minimum. that was good. safe.  
collecting his thoughts, Sherlock patiently waited for other people to leave, and began to stare unblinkingly at Mrs. Hudson counting on the sharpness of her mind to understand his untold need to talk. safe to say she wasn't amused when she finally turned her attention towards her most able student.  
there are things that one simply cannot grow accustomed to. funny because most of these things were somehow connected to Sherlock Holmes.

*

**JOHN**

  
the morning greeted John with the smell of coffee; probably Greg's courtesy, as always. with a deepest possible sigh, John opened his eyes. the air was filled with little flakes of dust. he laid motionlessly while his thoughts were racing, and every single one of them was about one person. the man cursed silently, feeling his irritation already building up.  
  
_bloody Holmes, it's all his fault! I shouldn't have talked with him at all._

John couldn't forgive himself for letting Sherlock fascinate him as much as he did in a manner of minutes; the way he thought seemed like some kind of magic. but then, when Sherlock took the time to unfold all of his observations about him, well... it took his breath away.  
  
_all those bloody IQ points of his, he must've have like billion of them! his fucking boarding school syntax! and his lousy I-Know-It-Allness!_

last night's anger, dimmed until now, has risen its ugly head once again. it all felt like Prometheus' liver growing back every night, always there, underneath the surface.

_eyes are the worst. I've never met a person of such an intelligent aesthetic, person who would've known about **everything** that happens around. and the lashes that seem without end... hair that looks like purest silk... God. what did I do in my life for him to be so beautiful?_

John suddenly felt all his blood leaving his upper brain to go to the one below his waist, and he had to take matters into his own _hand_. luckily, no one noticed all the extra time John spent that morning in the shower.

*

**SHERLOCK**

  
he didn't wake up in the middle of the night. he would've had to fall asleep first to do that. and he wasn't physically able to close his eyes for a moment without John's face appearing somewhere in his mind palace. as a matter of fact, it was a high time for him to rearrange to free some storage space, but he was too distracted. and he hated that feeling of being lost - the fact that it was the first time in his life, but also the fact that this state dared to even exist. unfortunately, it wasn't Sherlock's only problem. because - as if it was fate's cruel joke - every thought going through his brain was about _goddamn John Watson_.

*  
  
Sherlock left home in the early morning hours, ignoring his mother's breakfast call. his transport could go on for some more time without food. all his muscles ached, though; he spent far too much time hunched in one position, chainsmoking cigarettes from Mycroft's secret stash behind the _Encyclopædia Britannica's_ 7th tome. irritation flew freely inside of him - it was no unusual for his thoughts to be so placid, straight-forward, like a _normal person's_.

_outrageous!_

and there was John Watson himself, wonderfully unpredictable and inconspicuous little man with breathtaking blue eyes, so strikingly different from dull Victor Trevor. the very thought made Sherlock spit with contempt.  
  
_John is a good person._

the young man after a few minutes' walk reached the park and sat at one of the swings, stretching his long legs. he had a rehearsal coming today - Mrs. Hudson wouldn't want to miss two days before the premiere.  
  
_I hope Victor's going to break a leg. and both arms._

*

**JOHN**

  
breakfast wasn't the most pleasurable point of John's day, mainly because of Greg's unending bitching and Mike's silent support. not entirely disappointing, but not very encouraging either. especially when he forgot to bite his tongue and mentioned that he spent some time with Sherlock; the faces they both made when they latched on every following word were too priceless. but also a bit cringe worthy.  
half way through to John's favourite cafe, his attention was drawn to an inconspicuous poster hung up on a noticeboard. there was one particular name that made him stop, he realized.  
  
_Sherlock Holmes. **of course.**_

the poster was blue with simple black print:

_the University's dance group PARADOX has the immense pleasure to invite each and everyone for an evening full of love, music and ballet on the premiere of The Nutcracker on Christmas Eve. choreography - as always - by proffessor Martha Hudson, and Sherlock Holmes is going to play the Prince._

_see you there!_

  
_why am I not even surprised he's the Prince?_

John returned to where he came from, completely at ease, with a smile on his face, not paying attention to his friends talking about Sherlock. there was a plan already forming in his mind.


	3. meteorite storm.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John surprises Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to publish two chapters this time, so keep your heads up :3

**SHERLOCK**   
  


Sherlock was nervous. very much so even. he felt his stomach tie up in knots and it just wouldn't loosen no matter what. thinking that it was just another performance in his life wasn't helping much either. granted, the audience consisted of around 50 people at most, but the nerves still wouldn't let go, making him angry at himself for the amateur's reaction.

"Sherlock, darling, Victor just called to say he broke a leg", said Mrs. Hudson, as if sensing his discomfort. the woman was practically a saint. "he fell down the stairs or something, what a dreadful business, the boy wouldn't walk for a month on his own!"

Sherlock couldn't help the big smile spreading on his face.

"perfect", he murmured, going back to his abandoned cigarette. Mrs. Hudson only wagged her finger at him good naturedly.

he shouldn't smoke just before a physical effort because that could disturb the work of his lungs, and blah blah blah...

he crushed the butt of his cigarette on the wall and returned inside to prepare. there was a terribly uncomfortable costume waiting for him in an utility room-turned-dressing room. the first appearance of his Prince was going to be pure torture because that blue frock coat made moving almost impossible. he heaved a mighty sigh. one never knew who was going to be in the audience.

"right. into battle."

* 

**JOHN**  

nervousness creeped up on him. it was his first time seeing a ballet, and he felt a bit overwhelmed.  he was in a theatre once, though. he was 16 and had to go pick Harry up from some bar, and she really needed a restroom on their way home. while she used the facility, John looked around and had to admit that the elegant unavailability simply charmed him. when it came to ballet, John just couldn't predict what to expect of it. but it didn't necessarily bother him; he liked to be surprized from time to time. Sherlock was the only factor that really interested him in that area because it was his element, and he couldn't wait to see him taken by it.  
he exhaled deliberately while fixing his tie. he hated wearing ties. the whole stage was almost a perfect view from his place in the middle of the first row.  
the last murmurs from the audience were cut by a single hit of the gong. John glanced at his friends on the right who had stubbornly came with him and both had a very weird perspective on tagging along.

"it's not the XIXth century anymore, I don't need chaperons!", he breathed for an nth time that evening.  
"calm the fuck down, Johnny", Greg grinned at him, "you won't even notice us being here! what's got your knickers in a twist, anyway?"

John bit his tongue and left the discussion at that. it was a Christmas Eve after all, one had to be nice and so on. the pressure in his stomach was only growing with the passage of time.  
all the side lamps went out in one moment to leave a lone reflector concentrated on the person of petite figure of Molly Hooper.

*

even though John knew close to nothing about ballet, and yet he could tell that Moly was a good dancer. he wasn't that blind. Molly's creation of Clara had a lot of endearing charm of a child submerged in an imaginary world of dreams; it would've been hard to imagine the play without her. all the people accompanying her on stage paled a bit in comparison with her. but then again, there was Sherlock and his presence that filled up the whole room, making the rest of the world unimportant. John was so enraptured he couldn't move for an inch if his life depended on it. and Sherlock looked stunning that evening - he wore the cobalt blue costume that brought out one of the many colors of his irises and made his skin look radiant. his shiny blue leotard left absolutely nothing for the imagination; John suddenly felt his throat becoming as dry as a desert. he would've lied if he said Sherlock wasn't attractive. unfortunately for him, Sherlock was **very** attractive.  
  
_completely out of my league_ , he thought self deprecatingly.

Sherlock didn't look stereotypically masculine, but John found that he didn't mind it at all. his body was rather slim and made an impression of being fragile, but he most certainly wasn't weak. the brunette's muscles worked like a well oiled machinery - he moved with grace any person would envy. his tailored caftan beautifully accentuated his narrow waist and flat stomach, and he seemed even taller than John remembered. oh, and his make up did wonders to his eyes and John's heartbeat.

the dancer's scenic persona closely resembled Sherlock in real life. at some point, during one particularly spectacular figure in his composition, John heard someone quietly sighing in awe from his right side, and felt his blood boiling. Greg. he didn't like it. not one bit. he didn't like the thought that besides him, there was a number of young men in the room. where they can see the harmonic work of his muscles underneath the fitted costume. the player clenched his hands.

_calm down, Watson. it's just a dance. it's only a ballet._

John wanted to kick Greg anyway because he took out his phone and started fiddling with it. but then Sherlock's incredible eyes met his, and John forgot about all the rest of the Universe. there was only Sherlock.

  
*

**SHERLOCK**

  
it was dark. he liked it. he liked it when the attention of the entire room was on him and his dance. he preferred to see white circles of light following his movements. there was no way for him to get distracted by the people in the audience this way, and it was easier to let his heart just speak. the rest was only muscle memory.

it was going good, really good. up until the moment when someone from the first row checked his phone. Sherlock mentally kicked himself in the arse when he saw John Watson sitting arm in arm with the phone's owner, and after a fraction of a second looked him up in the eye. Sherlock felt all of the air leaving his lungs, and his heart started positively hammering. he didn't know what to do with himself at first, and he suddenly felt painfully out of place because there was John, _looking at him_. he almost didn't blink as in fear of breaking the connection, tracking every move he made with a private smile.

_watch me doing this, John._  
  
*  
  
**JOHN**

  
John had no idea what it was called, the figure Sherlock made just metres from his face. he wouldn't have been able to describe it if his life depended in it. but he didn't really care about it. he only cared about the fact that he didn't _want_ anyone in his life as much as the person he was so busy watching dance.  
  
*  
  
 **SHERLOCK**

he just changed into his own clothes and was just leaving when he heard his name. he turned and saw John; then the damn flu let him know it was still very much in the game because he felt warm all over his body. Watson was wearing a suit and looked simply stunning.

_people should legally ban this look. definitely._

"y-yes?", he choked a bit, really trying to avoid gaping at the man, but it was nearly impossible.  
"I just wanted to say that you were really incredible tonight", John said. his voice was at least half an octave lower than normal.

_like honey. God, John, you sound like a jar of honey._

"uh..."  
Sherlock, as the smartest person in the room, was hard to surprise because he usually  correctly predicted everyone's behaviour, and there hardly ever was a person who broke the pattern. but then John Watson appeared and turned out to be a walking breach of any and every single one of Sherlock's patterns. it seemed like John took it upon himself to baffle him, and effectively aimed to do just that during every interaction.

_whattodowhattodowhattodoGodisthisevenreal_

"...Sherlock?", Watson asked shyly. "Earth to Holmes..."  
  
_what do I say?_ , he thought frantically, desperate to deliver some clever answer. _that there were others better than me? ...no way, I won't lower myself to lying..._

and then, the marvellously unpredictable John, a human riddle, pulled him out of his trance. with a kiss. for a dozen precious seconds the resourceful blond man used the element of surprise, keeping Sherlock in place by the sheer movement of his soft lips. though the kiss was gentle and admittedly very sweet, but it was also too short. when John broke it, his face was lightening with pure contentment and his eyes sparkled.

"so...", Sherlock was the first to speak, but he had no idea what to say, completely consumed by the sight of John's pink tongue flicking up to lick his lower lip.  
"you're free tonight?", John asked without any preamble, and Sherlock could only nod. "come on, then."

wonderful John didn't let him draw away further than a metre or so from himself, embracing him in a possessive gesture and steering him towards exit.  
  
*  
  
_whatishappeningwhatishappeningwhatishappening_

he found that he liked that newly discovered site of John, a boy that looked like he was made of stardust in a jacket that belonged to his deceased father. it was at least a size too big for him, but it made his posture ramrod straight and his steps gain dignity. without an unnecessary word, John took Sherlock's bag to carry in his free hand while the other rested at the brunette's hip.

"where are we going to?", asked Sherlock when he actually found his voice.  
"oh, you'll see soon enough", John answered with another private smile of his.  
  
*  
  
**JOHN**

  
Angelo outdid himself, but John didn't expect anything less from him, especially when John mentioned that he was going to come with someone special. so far, so good, but Sherlock looked a bit wild eyed.  
"John Watson! so good to see you, kid!", Angelo greeted them jovially, taking John in a bearlike hug. Angelo was a great hulk of a man, but also one of the least harmful. Holmes observed his new setting, and when his curious eyes saw everything that was meant to be seen, it rested at John's converser.

*  
  
**SHERLOCK**  
  
"you too, Angelo", John smiled at the big man.  
"that's your special person, I reckon?", Angelo asked, looking kindly at Sherlock who turned beetroot. "well, well. you've got quite a taste, kid."  
John proudly smiled at Sherlock. "Angelo, this is Sherlock."  
"Sherlock Holmes, nice to meet you."

_54, widower, owns a dun cat and has two younger brothers, doesn't have driving licence. cooks well. met John's father in Aghanistan.  
_  
*

their coats were taken by a rattish waiter ( _cleptomaniac in debt who doesn't undergo any treatment. he already stole from some of his co-workers and clients a sum of around 150-200 quid, and he doesn't mean to stop anytime soon. need to warn Angelo._ ), and the owner himself showed them to the table in the corner, no doubt the best he had in his disposal. another young waiter gave them their menus while Angelo lit a candle and winked approvingly at John.

"that lad", Angelo begun, wrapping his big arm around John. he was obviously very fond of him. "he's one of the good ones, remember that, Sherlock. his father saved my fat arse over and over in Afghanistan, and this one here convinced me to open this restaurant when I was down after my Jenny died. John Watson will save your life."

John cleaned his throat awkwardly, uncomfortable with the praise. "you ready to order yet, Sherlock? because I think I'll have the lasagna..."

Sherlock nodded, instantly recognising his intentions. "I'll have the same, then."  
"lasagne for John and his date, I'll do it myself.", promised Angelo and made to go back to kitchen.


	4. another blasts of the supernova.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they go out and have fun. it's fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please make sure to drop by Darcie's tumblr to let her know she did a great job by editing these two chapters in one night.

the shirt he put on made him feel awful but Sherlock seemed to like what he saw, so he didn't honestly mind it that much. he let himself smile just a bit. despite all the nervousness, he was moderately pleased with himself and the fact that his plan was proceeding so smoothly.

"why are you looking at me like that?", John asked around a forkful of lasagne, noticing Sherlock haven't moved for ten minutes, and stared at him _without blinking_ , focusing entirely on him. he shifted on his seat, not used to such unwavering scrutiny. "is there something on my face?"

the dancer shook head no when he automatically raised his hand to wipe off the non-existent smear.

"I'm wondering", Sherlock finally said after some more time. John sighed internally at the sound. "what was it all for?"  
"how do you mean, what for?"  
"well... why are we here?"  
"because I wanted to spend some time with you. is that a bad reason?"  
"but why?"  
"what do you mean, why?"  
"oh, John! don't be an ignorant!"

Sherlock's last comment was accompanied by the majestic roll of his eyes and irritated voice. "you surely know the opinion I've on that Godforsaken uni! they think I'm a serial killer!"  
"well, are you one?", he couldn't stop that tiny bit of amusement that slipped into his voice. "because you certainly don't look like a person who would've ran with an axe in hand in his spare time."  
"don't be redundant, cyanide is much more effective and makes much less mess than an axe, John."  
"that's... not the answer I've expected..."  
   
Sherlock smiled smugly, but John thought it was actually endearing; Harry used to own a cat with a similar personality back in the days. aforementioned cat - Mr. Peanut - liked to demonstrate his alleged dislike of John, but it was his bed the cat slept on most nights.  
he smiled, trying for the soft tone. "so I should ignore all that crap about you eating cats as well, then?"  
"obviously, I despise cruelty.", the brunette dancer crinkled his nose with disapprobation, as if he just smelled something awful. John nodded to himself, continuing to eat his meal and noticing that Holmes hadn't even moved his portion.  
  
_definitely Mr. Peanut. and he's too thin. does he even eat regularly?_

"what if I had plans?", Sherlock asked abruptly, breaking the silence. "it's Christmas Eve, I could've gone somewhere."  
"I would've tried to somehow rearrange your plans for you then.", John only shrugged, not letting the question take him off balance. "let's say that... I had my part in Greg going out with your brother..."  
"you signed Mycroft up?! my personal abomination of a brother?!"  
"...Greg successfully softened him up enough to convince your family there was no tragedy in your absence...", John carried on like Sherlock didn't disturb his line of thought. "of course, I had to pay the price of the whole string of favours on my part, but there's no tragedy in that."  
"I can't believe Mycroft was okay with that plan."  
"he didn't believe it himself, but the strength of my arguments spoke to him on a molecular level."  
"...was it toffee?"  
"a metal box with 10 pounds of it inside, actually."  
Sherlock whistled.  
"well, at least he's going to be in his food coma when I get home."  
"by the way, tuck in", answered John with the sweetest smile in his arsenal. that smile helped him get the notes from the most unhelpful of people.

"I'm not hungry, John, and eating is a waste of time one could use on thinking, not to mention it's boring."  
"a _waste of time_? when was the last time you ate?"

Sherlock mulled his question over before responding. "tonight's Thursday, so... yeah, it was two days ago, on Tuesday."

Watson's eyes widened at that. "do you do this kind of breaks often, then?", he asked matter-of-factly.  
"when I'm thinking or working, I don't eat because digestion slows me down."  
John sighed. he had a face of long-suffering man acquiesced with his fate. "do you think or work a lot?"  
"non stop, John. my mind doesn't rest."  
"so... does that mean that... you have some sort of perpetuum mobile in your head?"  
"no. I have something like a rocket that tears everything else apart if it's not fed."

John's eyebrows shot up at the revelation, but he held back any comments, listening intently to all of Sherlock's words.

_he should record audiobooks._

"...for example, now I'm thinking about how long it took you to get ready for tonight. you must've changed your shirt two, no three times. you couldn't decide which one looked best on you, and you chose wisely, this one is the most flattering one. you were nervous, but had no nausea."  
"how can you possibly tell all of that?"  
it seemed like Sherlock only waited for that question because he smiled and leaned a bit towards him, ready to explain his logic.

"you have a few single threads in different colours on your clothes, and the sleeve of your father's jacket carries a tiny tea stain. you drank it with milk, and you should have definitely taken it off before getting tea, but it's still your favourite item of clothing. furthermore, there's a cut next to your right ear; your breath faintly smells of peppermint, but it's not your toothpaste you would have to use if you had emptied the content of your stomach."

"how... how can you tell it belonged to my dad?"  
"first glance of the eye told me it was fitted to you, but it's still a bit too broad in arms, and it wasn't worn very often before, but now the lining and collar are visibly affected by wear. still, the quality of the material is high, but it's not new, it's at least 20 years old. inside of your right sleeve, there's a label stating that the jacket belongs to 'H. Watson', but it can't be you, you don't use your middle name inherited from your father, a name that begins with the letter H, you introduce yourself as John Watson. and while we're at it, please close your mouth, it's an extremely suggestive gesture, John."

John swallowed with effort and picked up his dropped jaw.

"that was...", he breathed. "...unusual."  
"really?"  
"of course. I've never met someone like you."

Sherlock's face painted all sorts of emotions at that, uncertainty, disbelief and astonishment that made John's heart clench painfully to see.  
  
_you don't hear it often, huh? I'll change it._

"that's... not what people usually say.", the dancer whispered theatrically.  
"what do they usually say?"  
" _fuck off._ "  
  
John burst out laughing at the statement, and Sherlock after a while's hesitation, joined him with his rich baritone; his laughter rang in the air like a molted chocolate, making its nest somewhere deep inside John.  
  
_that laughter. I have to make him laugh more frequently._

"but seriously", remarked John when the first wave of joy passed. "you always think like that?"  
Sherlock hummed noncommittally.  
"how about a deal, huh? you'll eat your lasagne, and I'll let you read every single person in the room? what do you say?"  
"deduce."  
"I'll let you deduce everyone."  
John knew it was a good idea when Sherlock's eyes started sparkling.  
  
*  
  
**SHERLOCK**

few hours spent in company of one John Watson drove home his original theory that the man was simply _too perfect to be real_. he had to constantly pinch his arm under the table to prove to himself that it all really happened.

"comehomewithme", Sherlock choked out at some point, bypassing a stage of converting his statements, and John looked at him questioningly. and he was still smiling, like he had... a good time.  
"I'm sorry?", he asked politely. Sherlock took a deep breath.  
"come home with me", he repeated, this time keeping the gaps between his words. "Mycroft would... want that."  
"I'd love to meet him. but could we not talk about him right now? I want to spend the time with you, not him."  
  
_too perfect._

*

"hey... what if I didn't walk you home yet?", John tested gently after they finally left the restaurant.

Angelo was incredibly grateful when he found out the source of missing money and terminated the rat-faced waiter's job. John and Sherlock would probably never have to worry about a free table in his place for the rest of their natural lives.

"it's still early, some time to midnight..."  
Sherlock smiled.  
"show me how you live."

*

  
**JOHN**

John felt stupid. and cursed his sloppiness paired with laziness because his little room looked like London after a bombing. there were notes, textbooks, clothes in different states of wear, and all the other crap scattered all over the place. and Sherlock, standing right in the middle of it. what's funny, he seemed not to pay any attention to the mess, as if it was normal for him. even more peculiar was vivid interest he oozed that intrigued John enough to observe the man.

Sherlock paced the room like it was his own. (John paused at that, and found he wouldn't have minded it that much.) he was very focused on the task at hand, just like when he danced or read people. his brow was slightly drawn and lips marginally opened. he must've been deep in thought.

"what did you find out about me?", John asked, putting down a mug with Sherlock's tea on his desk.  
"I wanted coffee", Sherlock whined a bit at the beverage, pursing his lips.  
"your doctor doesn't allow you to drink coffee that late in the evening, actually.", John countered.  
"you're not my doctor. as a matter of fact, you're not anyone's doctor."  
"but I will be, and it's going to be soon, you git. and please drink your mint before I'll start pretending I've never asked my question."

Sherlock frowned with visual disapprove, but he didn't utter another word of complaint.  
  
*  
  
"so?"  
Sherlock took a chair that seemed to be made just for him. he looked like an integral part of that tiny room.  
"you live on your own, but your friends often visit you here. there's a cider in the refrigerator for Lestrade you wouldn't touch because your beverage of choice is beer. all seems like there used to be a girl here, but she doesn't live here anymore - you got cider for her, and there's no traces of a woman. the choice is obvious, really; you're not the partying type, so it has to be Lestrade with his unhealthy fascination for all things apple. and there's Mike, he would drink anything, so that's why there's also a Chinese brand. plus, you're a man that had to manage the dramatic reducing of the costs of your living--"

John put a stop to that sentence and undoubtedly many more that followed. he crossed the room in two steps, fell on his knees before Sherlock's sitting form, and kissed him, immediately shutting him up.  
  
*  
  
**SHERLOCK**

radio silence. that's what was in Sherlock's mind when John did it. he always felt the lack of contact when their lips parted. that's why he didn't let him do it this time, keeping him in place by holding tight to his shirt instead.

*  
  
**JOHN**

John was never too eloquent for his own good. he often chose to use only a few words to describe any given event, rather he had an extensive medical dictionary in his head. and he decided that there were no more other words he might need. but in the situation he was currently finding himself in, he found that he wanted to use the most beautiful, romantic and sophistical vocabulary that existed because that moment was unique. extraordinary. lovely. exciting. and dangerous, so wonderfully dangerous.

just like the stunning brunette man with galaxy eyes that accompanied him.

*  
  
**SHERLOCK**

"I think I should walk you home", John whispered. Sherlock could tell that some amount of time had passed, but he couldn't determine how much. it was like Vienna's Philharmonic Orchestra performance, and he was sitting in a first row. he made some vague noice in the back of his throat and the blond man lightly touched his cheek; their foreheads were still connected. "your brother's going to bury whatever's left of my body single-handedly in an unmarked grave if I let you stay here tonight."  
"don't be ridiculous, John. Mycroft's admittedly abhorrent, but he's Holmes after all. ...but please don't tell him I said it."


	5. new worlds in the distance.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "we'd better come back, you know how seriously Mummy takes entertaining. besides, your John asked about you."  
> "he asked about me? really?", Sherlock hated that his voice trembled. but that tickling feeling was quite distracting.  
> Mycroft only smiled that awful self-satisfied grimace he called smile. 
> 
> "besides, he's not _my_ John."
> 
> Mycroft shot him a look. that was all, really. his looks spoke entire paragraphs without him physically saying a word.
> 
> "what now?!", Sherlock asked, irritated beyond imagination."I know that look. what?!"  
> "oh, brother. do you really think that when I see the way you both look at each other, it's easy for me not to use that term?"  
> "go to hell, Mycroft."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand the almost last chapter. I know that Christmas is already over, but there's still some time left to Johnlock, and let's be honest, who could read a fic when there's some new Content?  
> as always, many thanks to modjohnlock for beta-reading the chapter.  
> anyway, in this chapter John meets Mummy, Daddy and few other members of the Holmes family, and the boys do the do and let me say, the scene is deliberately vague because that's how I roll. I hint for stuff and use puns. for obvious reasons, the first part of the chapter is Christmassy, and the other part is set few months after the first meeting with the family, when more things happen between our favorite idiots. I should add the epilogue some time around tomorrow or Saturday, but for now, the song of the chapter is The Ballad of the Mighty I by Noel Gallagher. here be angst.
> 
> hope you enjoy your meal.

skepticism was an indispensable part of Sherlock's nature. as a matter of fact, it lay at the very foundation of his personality; it was where his unending curiosity had its source. but even his intrisincal disbelief was put to the test when Mummy invited John to join them at dinner. and John, lovely John, embraced it and adapted to the new circumstances better than Sherlock expected him to.  
_so that's what Mycroft saw was necessary to discharge his part of agreement?_  

Sherlock left John with his family and went to the kitchen under the false pretense of getting a glass of water; his search for laxatives was disturbed by none other than his intended victim.

"if this is your idea of sneaking" he said loudly. "I must disappoint because you pant loud enough for uncle Ellinford to hear without his hearing aids"  
"dramatic as always, little brother", Mycroft answered, his calm annoying as ever. "we're not in a jungle, you know. there's no need to behave like a wild animal kept on a leash."

Sherlock didn't honor this statement with an answer.

"what do you want, Mycroft?", he asked with only a touch of irritation. it was Christmas, after all. "if you came here to warn me off of John, don't bother. I won't listen."  
"quite the opposite, in fact. I came to tell you that for the first time in my life, I can congratulate you for your choice of companion. and - if I may add - I'm proud of you, brother dear."

he hated when Mycroft made his jaw drop. "come again?"  
"you heard me perfectly the first time I spoke, Sherlock."

the Holmes brothers stood in silence for a couple of minutes. though Sherlock would never voluntarily admit it, he knew that himself and Mycroft were two sides of the same coin; internally more similar than they let others see.

"we'd better come back, you know how seriously Mummy takes entertaining. besides, your John asked about you."  
"he asked about me? really?", Sherlock hated that his voice trembled. but that tickling feeling was quite distracting.

Mycroft only smiled that awful self-satisfied grimace he called smile.

"besides, he's not _my_ John."

Mycroft shot him a look. that was all, really. his looks spoke entire paragraphs without him physically saying a word.

"what now?!", Sherlock asked, irritated beyond imagination."I know that look. what?!"  
"oh, brother. do you really think that when I see the way you both look at each other, it's easy for me not to use that term?"  
"go to hell, Mycroft."  
"I don't understand your unhealthy love for such brutal language, really."

Sherlock cursed coarsely. discussions with his older brother always ended with migraines. and blackmail.

"oh, and by the way", the elder Holmes added. he was already half way back to the dining room. "if you pour something awful onto my plate, I'll make sure that John - starting from tomorrow - will start receiving your most humiliating baby pictures every day. the one from when you're first cut your hair on your own included. you know how it is with the pictures, they tend to get lost only to be found in the least expected of places..."

"you wouldn't dare..."  
"want to take a risk?"

*  
_the worst part is that he doesn't let a man forget about himself_ , decided Sherlock, discretely watching John interact with the Holmeses. and every single person seemed to like him, as if the younger Holmes brought someone everybody waited for to meet.  
the course of his thoughts have been abruptly disturbed by John himself when their eyes met above uncle Rudy's arm. uncle Rudy had truly outdone himself this year by dressing up as the one Coco Chanel. Sherlock was amazed to see that Coco's style, with all her hats, pearls and famous little black dress definitely fit his veiny relative.  
John politely excused himself from his conversation with Rudy and joined Sherlock smoking alone on the terrace.

"I see Rudy has quite taken to you, John."  
"oh, you mean Coco?", John smiled. "I used to witness many things and most of them can't be unseen."

Sherlock silently kept smoking his fag. and John - also without a single word - took the cigarette out of his fingers and took a drag of his own, exhaling after a few heartbeats. Sherlock swallowed.

"I...", he whispered throatily. "I had no idea you were a smoker..."  
John shrugged. "years ago. I used to steal fags from Harry's packet, she smoked Marlboro's."

_interesting._  
  
their silence was... pleasurable. without guilt for God-knows-what-God-knows-when, just like with Mycroft. Sherlock really didn't want to think about what happened a minute prior. how sensual John looked with a fag. how desirable he was. he didn't want to wonder how the smoke changed the taste of John's lips. he didn't want to think about all that.  
unfortunately, John started shivering ever so slightly, and Holmes tried really hard to ignore it, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. he removed the left side of his own coat and embraced the man, simultaneously encasing John with the material. and John - the most wonderfully surprising being in the world - _blushed_.

*  
**JOHN**

the Holmes family was surprisingly... ordinary. normal. it was curious, too, how much respect both Mycroft and Sherlock had for their mother, calling her Mummy up until now, just like they did in the mafia. Mummy's single glance was enough to pacify the brothers. but the Holmes family - just like any other family - wasn't perfect. they were just better at managing their flaws.

in the Holmes dining room, uncle Rudy (Daddy Holmes' brother) was like a different brand of wine. John knew in his life many crossdressers, but Rudy Holmes was without doubt the most colorful one of them all because he, just like his sister-in-law, had quite the brain. which apparently constituted as an element of family inheritance. Daddy Holmes, on the other hand, was - like John - one of the 'normal' people.

Rudy, now a professor, studied physics at Cambridge when Stephen Hawking began to teach. once, when Hawking was meant to give a guest lecture at Oxford university, Rudy met a young math student that he later introduced to his brother, law student. the woman later became Mummy Holmes. her much older brother was an entomologist.

and John, being now in one room with all those brilliant people at once, felt like a hack between them. because the sum of their IQ points must've been around 2000. fortunately, all the intelligence wasn't pointed at him this time. fortunately, they were courteous, listening to every word he said, and John had to think very hard about the last time his own mother did something like that, and he came up with nothing. the thought made him smile sadly to himself.

he loved his family, that much was obvious. he wanted for his mother to be happy, just like he wanted it for Harry's sake. they all tried to make it work after dad passed away, but then Phil appeared and things shifted forever.

his unhappy thoughts were broken by the dancer's slender fingers intertwining with his own, short and plebeian, and his heart swelled with happiness.  
  
*

**SHERLOCK**

Sherlock hated Christmas more than cheesecake with raisins. more than stupidity and other inane rubbish. Christmas made everything so... normal. so peaceful, quiet and God-fearingly kind it made him nauseous. Christmas was a torture every damn year. this one, for the first time in the short history of Sherlock's life, was  one that he didn't hate long before the Christmas Eve. this year, he slept with a smile on his face.  
*

on the first day of Christmas, John looked just as dashing as he did on Christmas Eve. or even better, Sherlock couldn't decide. John chose to wear a pullover that drew attention to his blue eyes (and defined body) paired with a plain white shirt. Aunt Susan smiled at him just a tad more cordially, and that alone angered Sherlock, so he grabbed John's hand and tugged the man upstairs, to his room.

"that's how I live.", he said with the voice that spoke of a distant storm. then he pushed John towards the bed.  
"you have a very... interesting room.", John answered. his arms firmly circled Sherlock's waist and kissed his pulse point.  
"I'm happy that... you like it.", Sherlock loudly drew breath. John's lips moved along the dancer's jaw to his full lips, and wasted no time in exploring them.

* 

_johnjohn **JOHN** john_

*

their first appearance at the campus after Christmas made quite a stir among the student body. Sherlock felt a bit like a character taken from one of those ridiculous tv shows for idiots because he suddenly found himself the subject of gossip. the only help was that he wasn't alone in it.

_I just wounded my boyfriend's fan with the mere fact of my existence. JW_

Sherlock smiled widely at the text.

_Sally Donovan is not my fan. she's an angered feminist that hates me. I hope you affronted her on my behalf. SH_

_I didn't understand all the things she said, but she mentioned something about a freak. I could've overdone it a bit by saying that we both knew that neither Anderson nor any of her other boyfriends couldn't compete with you. JW_

he felt a wave of warmth extending from his heart to toes.

_so true. Anderson creates entirely new basics of idiocy. SH_

_modest as always. JW_

_no need to ignore one's best assets, John. SH_

_you forgot about your athletic silhouette, piercing eyes and lips made for kissing. JW_

Sherlock felt himself blushing; that's what John was doing to him.  
  
_it's you that I have for reminding me about these things._  
_and a few others as well. SH_

*

**JOHN**

there was warmth that John felt after reading Sherlock's last message. he wrote back, his hands shook:

_are you seducing me just now? JW_

the reply came almost instantly.

_depends if it's working. SH_

_you bastard, I'm in the middle of lecture about the anomalies of the immunological system. JW_

_boredom, inertia, monotony. pretend you're sick. SH_

_you know I can't. JW_

_I'll take care of it. SH_

"I'll take care of it"? how on earth?

the issue was solved when the air pierced the high-pitched sound of a fire alarm that extended a minute later.

_gatehouse. SH_

*

**SHERLOCK**

he was shaking all over when he waited for John to join him. people were pouring out of the building around him while he calmly (at least that's what he told himself) held his position. when the hall finally emptied, he could pick up a sound of single person's steps.

"where's your loverboy?", the voice was dripping with contempt. Sherlock balled his fists.

"he'll be here very soon, I'm sure something kept him.", he answered, surprised that his clenched throat was even able to utter a sound.

"something or someone.", Moriarty cooed hatefully; Sherlock's blood froze in his veins when the rustle of the Irishman's breath tickled his nape.

Jim Moriarty. the worst of the worst ones. the young Holmes edged away from the man; he made his skin crawl. "go back to where you came from, Jim."

"oh, don't be like that, Sherly. we could have so much fun together if it wasn't for your barker. by the way, which one of you tops?"

"none of your business."

"why so nervous, Sherly? I'm just wondering what is so special about him. he's such a normal chap, the most common of the common ones. he's actually nothing when I think about it." 

Sherlock didn't answer.

"really, Sherly.", Moriarty wagged his finger at him with a mocking smile plastered to his dead face. "I would've expected something better from you..."

John's warm voice cut through the tensed silence. "is there a problem?" Sherlock never felt such relief in his life. John hugged him shortly and kissed his cheek hello, which, upon being seen, caused Moriarty make a wry face. the blond man fixed the stranger with the most dire of his stares; his mouth tightened.

"we're just having a boy talk with Sherlock.", Jim was absolutely disgusting; his dark eyes were like a pair of emotionless balls. "no reason for fear, dove. won't take him away from you. ...he's going to follow me on his own."

John's glare was so cold it made Sherlock shiver.

"we'll just see about that, _Jimmy_ ", he answered, stressing the name at the end. "I can't see him scrambling towards you. I wonder why that is? oh, that's right, maybe because you would have to tie him down first?"

his attitude reminded Sherlock of a soldier defending the trenches. Moriarty only grimaced, ignoring his reply altogether. "ciao, Sherlock Holmes.", he sent Sherlock a kiss and sidestepped them, terribly pleased with himself.

"a fucking psychopath, that one.", John breathed after a long while. "are you okay?"  
Sherlock only shrugged.  
"Angelo's?", he asked instead of answer.  
"thought you'd never ask.", John dropped the warpath; his smile was once again easy and bright as always. "let's go, I'm starving."

*

Sherlock never believed in a blind chance, and he learnt not to trust people who preached that our lives were ruled by some higher power. he was a natural adversary of any religion as well because all of them were about putting _faith_ in some invisible being, and he really didn't have it in him. ( _the Universe is rarely so lazy, John!_ )

no. the power of the human mind was the only thing Sherlock was capable of believing in. but, after the first couple of weeks, everyday life with John made him question his first theory about the existence of God. because John - in his own style, of course - deflected all his original fears and _didn't_ leave. which, as you can imagine, caused a new wave of concerns.

*

an inconspicuous March morning brought answers for the most nagging of questions he didn't dare to ask out loud. the day had begun like always these days, with a cup of coffee and a piece of toast he stole from John's plate. Sherlock really didn't want to eat anything that day, but he knew how much John enjoyed feeding him, so he ate everything without protests.  
John's delicate smile made the world a tad brighter. the peaceful atmosphere of the morning was broken by Greg's appearance at their doorstep; it was nothing new for any of them, not since they moved in together.

"Sherlock.", Lestrade greeted him politely. he was holding a paper cup in his hand, undoubtedly full to the brim with coffee. Sherlock thought it made him look like a stereotypical criminology student, with his ever present harassed facial expression and long grey coat.  
Sherlock made a hand gesture that was more or less similar to a greeting without raising his eyes from the screen of his phone. "Gavin."  
"when will you finally remember my name's Greg?", Lestrade asked tiredly; he was no doubt frowning.  
"probably never, I try not to bother myself with rubbish."  
"all right, boys", John broke in before the discussion became more heated, and bent to kiss Sherlock's cheek. "okay, we can go now."

John looked that day too good for Sherlock's wellbeing, honestly. he put on Sherlock's favourite pair of jeans that narrowed in all the most important of places, and - as if it wasn't enough - were paired with blue t-shirt that fit him too well. muscled arms were covered by a graphite cardigan. all that made Sherlock's breath and mind stop for a couple of seconds.

"oh, I forgot", Greg piped in, ruining the moment in his usual manner. he reached down to his bag. "got your mail."

* 

_John, why is there a letter with a RAMC logo addressed to you? SH_

John felt his heart drop. it took a lot of effort to tap out the response.

_I sent an application a year or so ago. JW_

_and you're just telling me now? SH_

he sighed. Sherlock must be furious. that's not how he imagined his day to go.

_it was nothing sure. they didn't promise to take me in. JW_

_I'm home in 15 minutes. JW_

* 

unfortunately, he came back to an empty flat. and a formal looking letter left in the middle of their table that was certainly opened by a nervous hand.

_...we are pleased to inform that John Hamish Watson, born in Lymington in Hampshire on 15th May 1989, has been accepted to the Royal Army Medical Corps, where he is going to continue his medical practice._

*  
_the colors around me have faded away_  
_and I'll be waiting, count on me - I'll find you._


	6. anisotropy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock quietly laid on the couch, not paying any attention to porcelain flying all over the place. he looked bored, grating on my fragile nerves even more.
> 
> "are you quite done already?", he asked at last when I stopped for a breath. I hesitated, but nodded after a beat. his ribs were moving atypically, so I sighed and went to retrieve the first aid kit that should've been a part of standard equipment of every household that Sherlock Holmes had the access to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and the first part of my story is officially done! my very special thank you's go to Darcie because she made this possible, and to all of you who followed the story because you are the reason I thought of it. thank you so much. 
> 
> this chapter makes me think about Ordinary Love by U2.
> 
> 'till next time, partners.

**anisotropy** \- the property of being directionally dependent; to depend on the direction one looks in.

 

John. the only name in the world worth remembering and repeating. the only person in the world worth the attention. he's the person that I came to love, and he's leaving me, he's going to leave everything that made our little bubble of happiness. I liked to think that I was one of the pieces of that bubble as well. and now the one person I can't imagine my world without is going away. of course I felt like shit. or no, I felt even worse because it was like there was a void inside of me. if I remember correctly, it was like suffocating in our own home when I first found out. in our home, a place where my mess naturally soaked his mess up. there was one persistent thought rolling through my mind: he's going to leave you and you can't do a thing about it. I had to go out, anywhere at all. I have no idea how long I circled around the city because I quickly lost the sense of time while staring with unseeing eyes. for some reason, I ended up at Speedy's, our favourite cafe.

"on the house", spoke Emily, one of the baristas on the shift while sitting a cup of coffee on the little table before me. she, just like any other person, was kinder to John, but that's just how things were. I think I looked creepy with my staring at the wall, like I was expecting it to provide me with answers. "you look like someone who could use some caffeine."

"thank you.", I responded at last, internally begging her to leave me alone. she didn't do it. obviously.  
"are you waiting here for John? you're meeting here, aren't you?"  
"please, leave me alone.", I said quietly. "I'll leave in a bit, no worries."

my - not so typical - behavior only made her more curious. obviously. God, how does John do these things? how can he bear all those normal people?

"Sherlock, is everything okay?"

I ground my teeth at the stupidity of her question. did I really look like everything was okay? "no. it's not okay, nothing's okay anymore. and sorry, but I need to go."

I left the cafe without waiting for her reaction. the dusk already fell outside, and I suddenly begun to physically shiver; it was really cold.

I would've done everything to make him stay. everything.

*

he wore only his dressing gown and pyjamas when he went out. he didn't even put his coat on.  
my instinct told me to call Mycroft, and so I did.

"I'll keep my eyes open.", he promised curtly. and I was doing my best to keep panic at bay; I wasn't entirely successful on that front. the stillness was eerily, and unnaturally calm in contrast to the familiar atmosphere which hung above our rooms, normally full of the sounds of life. not it seemed more like someone had died because the silence rang in one's ears. or maybe it was just my imagination?

*

I have no idea how much time I spent being consumed by numbness. it was like the time itself stopped in its tracks. in the end, my troubled mind crossed a single sobering thought - that I need to find him. I began with leaving the flat.

*

I was leaning on a wall in an alley of the world forgotten by God. my head felt like it was at least two times bigger, and I knew that I had to go home at some point, but despite having memorized the most of London's topography, I couldn't focus enough to find the way. I couldn't move either because my limbs were made from wool.

*

the most wonderful of beings named John found me. seeing the pain that crossed his face, written in his frowned by worry forehead and terrified eyes, was the worst thing I went through. I couldn't bare that sight.

_it's all my fault._

_go to hell, Sherlock Holmes._

*

being wrapped up in the joy of being found, I've only noticed the shudders ripping through him when he closed the door behind us. I thought it was worry at first, but then, after the original brain fog wore off, I realized it was tagging along with persistent, loaded with hurt silence. he was agitated, and he looked like his blood was boiling underneath his skin. he was repeatedly clenching his fists, and his breath rustled in the air. the eyes - being the oceans of relief a while earlier - now have adopted the colour of the stormy sky.

*

our walls have never heard the fight that came afterwards. Sherlock was a master of driving a man wild, and we had our ups and downs, but I've never lost control over myself. not until now. at some point, if I remember it correctly, I stumbled upon horrible dinnerware with pink flowers. I got rid of it in a heartbeat, throwing the hateful plates towards the wall.  
  
Sherlock quietly laid on the couch, not paying any attention to porcelain flying all over the place. he looked bored, grating on my fragile nerves even more.

"are you quite done already?", he asked at last when I stopped for a breath. I hesitated, but nodded after a beat. his ribs were moving atypically, so I sighed and went to retrieve the first aid kit that should've been a part of standard equipment of every household that Sherlock Holmes had the access to.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!


End file.
